


A Very Mycroft Christmas

by thatclutzsarahh



Series: A Very Mythea Holiday [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Holidays, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2799929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatclutzsarahh/pseuds/thatclutzsarahh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief collection of Mycroft/Anthea stories set around Christmas Time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Toy Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my sabrina](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+sabrina).



She is wrapped,  _swathed_  in the latest Burberry winter fashion, like only she would be. The wine wool covered her down to her knees, where black stockings poked free briefly, before disappearing into Italian boots he remembers her getting on their last trip to Italy. She's looking in the glass window of a small shoppe on a quiet street in the city, far away from any tourist attractions, away from the bustle of work, people, London,  _noise_  that would distract her-that would distract him. 

With the light flakes of snow that cling to her dark hair, she looks much younger than she does in the harsh light of their office, dim, and cruel, casting age lines near her eyes, and wrinkles near her lips. Here in the snow she is the vision of the thirty four year old she is, dazzling with youth and glowing with the efficiency of lightbulbs the office won't buy, so bright they may blow the fuse box-as if he would mind sitting in the dark across from the young, talented woman. 

Anthea had drug Mycroft Holmes out this evening for dinner, though it was Mycroft who had requested the late stroll. They had eaten fairly early in the afternoon, and the sun had yet to set, the edges threatening the western horizon line with a flirtatious kiss, much like the way Anthea's scarf kissed the side of her cheek, gentle, barely, brushing bone structure like it were a canvas. Mycroft had filled up on his meal, and though he is aging much faster than his female counterpart, he was not yet ready to retire away to the house, opting instead for the light christmas stroll down the quiet street, if not only to poke in the windows but simply to spend some quiet time with the woman, before they must return to the grind of daily work. Here, in this moment they are separate from their daily lives, the ins and outs of government, of management, of  _pretending_  that he does not think his whole world is a snow globe, and she is the snow that blankets him when shake, settles around him when idle,  _completing_  him when he would otherwise feel vacant. 

He had been pulled away from his stroll with her by a phone call, all frivolous now, and when the call had ended she was no longer perched on his arm like she had been. It took him a brief moment to locate the beautiful woman, finding her entranced by the quiet baubles in an aging shoppe window. Mycroft had taken a brief moment to admire her, watching her bend down to look at the trinket closely, gloved fingers almost reaching out to touch the glass, breath small puffs dying past her lips, a mirth in her eyes. And though he could deduce what a  _normal_  woman would be thinking at this moment- some great  _desire_  for the object, or objects in general (diamonds, perhaps?), Anthea was no  _ordinary_  woman.

All his life he had prided himself upon deductions, upon being smarter, better,  _wittier_  than the others of his lifetime. And for a long time that's who he was, that he was simply  _better_  than the others, simply more  _intelligent_ , more  _everything_  than anyone else. He would outsmart even professors in university, a boring,  _ordinary_  problem that often did not quell the deep over sharing remarks he wanted to make. But impulse control got him so far, open his doorway into the government, into this job, the one made for him and his  _supercomputer_ brain, far away from people and real conversation. And then of course, she had appeared, and, as cliche as he believes it to be, she had changed it all for him. 

Which is how they got here, standing so intimately distant from each other, him watching her, wondering what she could be thinking. He doesn't have to call for her to catch her attention, she knows he is watching, and Anthea looks up at him, lively blue eyes, dancing with the ice that threatens to knock her down, wet snow that soak her heels. He does not understand why she wears those, at least in this weather, boots that hold her feet so high off the ground, pointing her forever in a precious position. He has come to learn from her that she is a juxtaposition of a woman, both hard and soft, feminine and masculine, strong and delicate. Mycroft knows her tongue both bathes the world with harsh words one moment, and soothes wounds with a storm's calmness the next.

In this moment she looks at him with that delicacy that is distinctly hers, pulling her body to full height. Of course he notes she is about a stone overweight but he is also smart enough not to say anything because she is so  _fiercely_ woman it would be a death wish of his to mention it. And in a secret desire he likes her this weight, plush,  _soft_ , a layer to hide the steel cage of her bones, the diamond razor spine that roots her upright. It is often thought that the woman is the dreamer and the man is the tree, but in the moments he's spent with her he finds it is not such the case. He would gladly stick his head up so far in the clouds so long as it is her that roots him down.

He waits for her to come to him, and she does, picking her way over the ice and snow to his arm, lightly holding onto him again. He holds in his left hand an umbrella, both a tool to balance his aging bones on and to shield them if the snow gets any worse. She looks up at him and gives him a gentle smile, a calming one, turning her face to the road ahead of her. She doesn't ask who called, it is unlikely she will. It is not important to her, he had found out, what happens that is his business. Anthea is in control of her life and keeps it separate from his, just as he does with her. He places a hand over hers, patting it gently, stepping along with her. They are quiet for a moment, before his curiosity gets the better of him. 

"Was it interesting?"

"Not really."

And that's how she was, a constantly surprising human being. She had looked enthralled with the bauble, recalling the way it had refracted the setting light onto her cheeks, and yet she is so nonchalantly uninterested in it, briefly mesmerized before passing over it. That, that opinion is what he fears, a secret fear, that she may one day finish her fascination with him and move on. 

Mycroft Holmes will never admit it, however. He would rather admit defeat than that the woman stirred  _emotion_  in him.

There is no further comment to be made on the subject. The pair continue along their stroll, he supporting her and she supporting him, watching the light fade and the small twinkle of fairy lights turn on, store by store, lighting up the shoppe fronts with a gentle sweetness, reminiscent of their delicate intimacy. It was refreshing, the reflection, an undeniable sweetness between the pair that put to shame even the most delectable of candies.

They had approach a store front with toys, and, caught by the glitter of the train that rounded the front, Anthea had stopped. There was a silence between them, a cold moment that lingered as she watched the toy swing delicately over its tracks, zooming between stuffed bears, wooden nutcrackers, Villages built of ceramic and lights. He knew what she wanted, it was no secret, she made no bars to deny that her greatest urge, biological and otherwise, was to mother a child, weather it be hers-theirs by  _blood_ or by paper. 

Mycroft lifts her gloved hand to his lips, pressing a soft, longing kiss to the smooth leather so that he may catch her attention. There is only a brief half second where she will show him her exact thoughts, the half second it takes to get her to return to earth, to him, to reality that she is aging greatly and she is without a child. He swallows, as if he is prepared to speak, but her smile, however small, however sad, still the words. She leans up, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, a silent  _I know_  before he could say it. _  
_

The ringing of the shoppe's door breaks them apart, air filling with the laughter of a pair of young boys, flying wooden planes into the sidewalk and racing each other. Anthea cannot hide the small chuckle of laughter that escapes past her lips. And though Mycroft is at ease, relaxed, his own laughter dies halfway across his lips.


	2. Upon a December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Invited annually to attend a charity gala, this is the first year Mycroft Holmes will attend.

In his line of work, there is no such thing a company 'party'. The office is small, and within it are secrets-money for secrets, money for trades, he cannot trust a single member of his staff. Even among the warm holiday lights there is a bitterness between the members of his office, and so, despite how cheery Christmas is, he keeps the place bitter and cold.

But that is not to say he is not granted an invitation yearly to the largest political and charitable gathering offered in London. The Christmas ball, held annually at the Tate, is quite the affair to be invited to, and with his position of power, status and intelligence, it is no surprise he receives a welcoming invite year after year. It is also no surprise that, year after year, he is a no show. 

However, there is something he had not factored in this year, and that is the ever strong woman of his life, Anthea, and how she seemed to always want to do the things he did not. Like opposites, she was the attraction that pulled him along in society, warming him up like a fire to the idea that perhaps he was not living to the fullest he had thought so. Humanity had-  _has_  bored him for so long, she offered him the entertainment that maybe, just maybe, he should indulge in the petty idea of living like a.... _goldfish_. 

He hadn't gotten quite that far, though, because being a goldfish, while extremely helpful may be detrimental to his health and well being. And thus he's still at the end of his rope with society, an olive branch extended far out, just wanting for his thin, arrogant fingers to take it in acceptance. Mycroft Holmes, however, is too proud to entangle himself with ordinary, boring, mundane.   
  
Which, in turn, must make her extraordinary.

Anthea, despite her plainness, is exceptionally beautiful because of her complexity, an intelligence he has not seen in women before her. There is a remarkable uniqueness to the woman that poses as a secretary, something that is unrivaled by the others he crosses. And in turn, whether he realizes it or not, is the exact reason he is attending this ball for the first time, though it is far from alone. She is to be his accompaniment, not because she is insurmountably gorgeous, but because she is the most well trusted of the people Mycroft Holmes knows, and that is an asset to a man with more enemies than friends. 

He meets her at the door of her building, finely dressed in his traditional suit with Italian shoes. The buttons are getting too loose again, a side note that fixates him more than the loose thread in his inside left breastpocket, waiting for his dearly loved woman to grace him. He makes no questions as to her place of living-a modest, grand white front building with fine trim. There is no secret she is paid well, though it is clear she comes from a background of money as well. He knew this at one time, but it was not significant enough to be remembered. She was self sufficient, something that he not only did not remember but did not mind-there was no clinging from her upon him.

But what does cling is the fabric of the deep black dress that wraps her body the moment she steps out next to him. Her beauty is pornographically obscene, a cascade of curses from the mouths of sailors, one after another until their lips grow pale and fall off. It is a designer gown, simple,  _tight_ , a supportively thick matte fabric that could pass as a blend of wool and crepe or something in between. From her painted red lips to her cascading brown hair and pearls adorning her neck she has outshone him by far. Intentional or accidental, it seems the man is the black sky that her star shines against. 

He moves to speak, but the words fade so quickly in the back of his throat, not even bubbling up to make a comment. And what kind of comment could the government man make? She is indubitably stunning but she knows it, and confirming her ego is not something he will do even though each corner of his upbringing demands for it to be done. He would rather swallow his frivolous words than let her hear something she already knows. 

Instead he reaches for her hand, wrapped in leather gloves to keep her warm, pressing a sweet kiss to the back of her hand. Mycroft watches her eyes hood, nose tilted like she was born to be a queen-his queen, before returning her hand to the McQueen clutch that carries her essentials for the evening. Mycroft extends to her his arm, and Anthea takes it, sliding a fur wrapped arm through his. At the curb awaits the car, their chauffeur knows of their intimacy but is silent for it. It is not his place, nor his business. And perhaps, he may be paid handsomely for his silence. Perhaps.

They sit close in the car, hip to hip, linked comfortably with each other. It is here that there is light conversation, a calm passing of words to each other. They talk work and quiet notes, she tells him the details of the next day and he organizes the things he forgot, cataloging them all in spacious rooms in his head so that he may mentally prepare for tomorrow's compute. But tonight that is not the take the conversation turns. Tonight she inquires something of him. It is casual, skillfully executed, an inquisition he will answer.

"There is no mention of Sherlock, lately."

"I suspect that is a good thing. We hardly need the Cambodian government upon us."

"Unique choice for an Englishman."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

She offers no more validation to her point, though he knows she will not have to. Anthea is right and he has admitted it in his eyes, she can see, but there is no need for a verbal agreement. The conversation dies upon her word, a commandment he follows silently, willingly, because the matter is both unimportant and unchanging at the moment. Though the departure of the youngest Holmes has taxed Mycroft greatly, he feels that her soothing comfort, however brief it is, is enough for now. 

The arrival of their car is within a matter of minutes since her words, a well placed conversation end and gala beginning. The Tate is decorated with a thousand fairy lights, twinkling off the fresh fallen snow that hides the mounting stairs. A red carpet has been rolled out across the bridge, nixing the chance that she may lose her balance in the uneven snowfall, and despite the fact he has seen her run in such thin heel shoes, his fear does not go unvexed that she may fall. Outside the building are larger than life holiday decorations-large ornaments, presents, things for drunken guests to climb over and crawl up into photographs or 'selfies' or things beneath his dignity. 

But, over all, the place looks wonderfully hosted for the political event. 

Inside is no different, though of course, he is highly distracted once the pair enter the venue. Despite the aging signs of Anthea's body (her breasts, they have dropped recently, he would know, he studies them with great attentivity) her face is still young, fresh, an eyeful for the men that no longer sow faithfulness into their marriage-vultures, men with great skill that perhaps could woo the mysteriously strange woman he calls his own. That is the thing about Anthea, that she is so shrouded in her own mysteries that he awaits the day she leaves him. 

The thing is, that while he may feel himself growing to need her, she does not need him, a quality he both finds admirable and fearful. The idea of being replaced is not new (he was replaced with the birth of his brother, Sherlock) and though he knows rationally jealous is simple the  _animal_  part of him, he shovels it away. She has selected  _him_  as a mate, however brief it may be, and when she moves on from him he must know it is because there is another more  _dominant_  than himself for her. Those thoughts do little to quell his fears. _  
_

What does help is her extended arm, reaching for him to follow her out into the dancing crowd. In dance they share a secret, that her body was taught its gracefulness by his, many a private hour of dance between them, and her moves on from him, his teachings, his way. Here, when she asks with grace and with beauty, reaching her soft, warm fingers for his callous ones, she is quelling his thoughts of being abandoned by her. She has chosen him and is confident in that, her mate is a selection that she will not regret. And from there, in those small animalistic acknowledgements he gains comfort. In the middle of the dance floor he keeps her close, a little too close for professionalism, knowing that tonight, it did not matter what the goldfish might say of him.


End file.
